


The Comfort of Friends & Family

by Kaicielia



Series: Miria [3]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2015-11-05
Packaged: 2018-04-30 05:11:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5151518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaicielia/pseuds/Kaicielia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miria has left Riften in an effort to find some meaning in life, but even a home and children leave her wanting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Runa screeched as she tore through the kitchen, upsetting a tray of sliced apples as she passed. Her brother, Hroar, followed closely behind. When the tray hit the floor with a loud crash both children froze in their tracks and stared at Miria as she stared back at them. 

Miria pointed her finger to the front door. “Out,” she told them after a short pause. “Out of the kitchen; out of the house if you’re going to be running around like wild animals.”

“Now you’ve done it,” Runa said to Hroar as they rushed out of the room together. “No dessert tonight.”

“I didn’t knock the apples over,” Hroar defended himself. “You’re the one that….”

“Yeah,” Runa interrupted him, “but you chased me. I didn’t even want to play.”

“If you didn’t want to play, then….” The argument ended with the slamming of the outside door and Miria took a deep breath as she bent to pick up the mess. 

She was relieved to see the children had suffered no obvious ill-effects from their time in the orphanage, nor the sudden and violent death of the mistress that headed it. “Grelod the Kind” the woman had called herself, although the children called her by much more interesting, and less pleasant, names. When one of the woman’s charges tried to hire Miria to kill her, Miria thought she could instead reason with the woman. After seeing how she treated the children and hearing that she refused to allow them to be adopted, Miria realized her options were limited.

Life since the adoption had its own difficulties. The children shared a small room in her home in Riften initially but Miria began construction of the homestead at Lakeside right away. Even now work was continuing; a larger and better-equipped kitchen had already been framed out and Miria had plans for a cellar and other rooms to be built. 

She added the ruined apples to the slop bucket; the sow and chickens would get a feast tonight; before returning to her work. Racks of apple slices and grapes dried in the sun as Miria prepared vegetables for canning. Winter was still months away but Miria intended to have everything prepared before the first snow fell. Her work often took her from the house for extended periods, after all, and she would feel more comfortable if she knew that the household would want for nothing in her absence.

Firewood still needed to be split and feed for the animals had been ordered. The harvest from their small garden had been bountiful and Miria struggled to preserve the food before it went bad.

“I laid their warm clothing out on their beds,” Lydia told Miria when she entered the kitchen. “I doubt they were taught to mend in the orphanage; I don’t imagine they’ll know where to start.”

“Then now is a great time to teach them,” Miria told her without hesitation.

“I’m surprised you don’t let them preserve their own food.” Lydia gave Miria a sly smile before exiting the kitchen. “That’s something they could learn, too.”

Miria choked back a laugh. “There’d be nothing left to preserve,” she argued, indicating the slop bucket that needed to be emptied. “One thing at a time,” she said to the departing housecarl’s back. “Tonight, they learn mending.”

By the time Lydia had dinner prepared the shelves in the kitchen were looking significantly less bare. Pickled cucumbers and relish filled the top shelves and Miria had made good progress on the other vegetables. She wondered briefly if digging a root cellar would take less time than canning root vegetables, but decided to leave that upgrade for another time.

The household came together for the evening meal, including the housecarl and Llewellyn, the bard Miria had hired to see to the children’s education.

“Look, Ma,” Hroar called out as he entered the room, holding a dead rabbit out in front of him. “I got one! Can we have it for dinner?”

“Oh, Hroar.” Miria jumped from her seat and approached the children.

Runa caught the displeasure in Miria’s voice. “I told you she wouldn’t like it.”

“On the contrary,” Miria corrected her. “I simply wish that such things would remain outside the dining room when we are eating.” She turned her attention to Hroar. “Dinner is already prepared, but maybe we can make it tomorrow.”

Hroar stuck his tongue out at Runa as Miria hung the catch, a large rabbit to be sure, in the entry room. Runa responded with a whine.

“That’s enough,” Miria told them. “Clean up, dinner is ready.”

The next instant they were gone, their continuing chatter bringing smiles to the faces of the adults.

“So,” Lydia asked when Miria returned, “hasenpfeffer for dinner tomorrow?”

Miria laughed. “Looks like. Nice looking rabbit, too.”

“I hate hasenpfeffer,” Llewellyn groused, but his smile remained. “I wonder if he caught it in the trap we set. It didn’t look all that good, but if it functions I guess that’s what matters.”

“I’m sure childhood luck had some hand in it,” Miria suggested. “It amazes me more often than not what they are able to accomplish with little or incorrect training.”

Lydia laughed aloud at that. “Like the fish Runa caught; remember that?” She turned to Llewellyn, who had not yet joined the household at the time of the story. “She hadn’t even baited the hook. ‘Worms are gross!’ she said. Not two minutes after the hook hit the water she snagged a monster fish.”

Miria continued as Lydia succumbed to a fit of laughter. “She just knew that we were all wrong, that you didn’t need bait to catch a fish.” The children returned to the room and Miria turned a smile on the girl. “But she learned better, didn’t she?”

“Ma,” Runa whined when she realized they had been talking about her.

“We pulled in a huge load that day,” Lydia finished, “but she didn’t catch a single fish the rest of the day.”

The girl made a face and took her place at the table.

They ate their meal with the chatter of the children filling them in on how Hroar had managed to get the rabbit – a pit trap of his own design – as well as their ideas of improving the trap, how they would modify it for the crawlers on the shore of the lake and whether luck really had anything to do with what the children accomplished.

When the meal was completed and the table had been cleared and cleaned, Llewellyn played an historical ballad while Miria showed the children how to mend the clothing that had been damaged the previous winter.

Hroar had a particularly difficult time, stopping often to look over at his sister’s work before complaining about how difficult it was.

“You will need your cloak before the snow comes,” Miria told him during one such episode. “Or do you really think the cotton shirt and trousers you wore today will keep you warm when the winter winds begin to blow?”

“But it’s too hard for me,” he whined again, throwing his wool cloak to the floor. “Why can’t you just do it? I caught a rabbit today; isn’t that enough?”

“I’m mending my own cloak,” she said to him, holding the garment out to show him the tear along the hemline. “It is a skill that all adults must learn, or they must pay others to do the work for them. The same can be said about gathering and preparing food, building a home, even entertaining and caring for children.” She picked up the cloak he had thrown to the floor and looked it over. “I’d charge you 50 septims to fix this. You could buy a good used one for a couple hundred; a new one for 600 at least.”

“I don’t have 50 septims!” the boy protested.

Miria gave Runa a sideways look when she began giggling. “Well,” she said, turning her attention back to Hroar, “The cost isn’t based on what you have to spend, it is based on what I decide my time and effort are worth.”

“Grelod never made us mend, or cook, or fix stuff.”

Runa froze mid-stitch when she heard her brother’s comment. Neither child had mentioned the orphanage since they left and she worried what punishment the slip would bring.

Miria took a deep breath to tame the anger rising in her. She understood that Hroar was just a boy, but he had developed a few bad habits that she was still in the process of breaking. “The goal of the orphanage is to keep children who have lost their parents alive, and even Grelod petitioned for charity in exchange.” She calmly laid his cloak back on his lap and handed him the needle and thread he needed to complete it. “My goal for you is greater than that; to assure that you are capable of living a productive and successful life when you decide to head out on your own. What you decide to do then is out of my hands.”

“Besides,” Runa added when she realized there would be no punishment, “remember the clothes we had then? They were torn and dirty when we got them; don’t you like having nicer stuff?”

Hroar’s glare was full of animosity when he turned it on his sister, but he continued the chore without any further comment.

It was dark by the time the children were done, and even Hroar was beaming after he finished a shirt he had decided the year before was his favorite. There were a couple of pieces that the children had grown too large for and Miria allowed them to set these aside without mending, intending to replace them. Hroar’s childishness had given her an idea, however, and she decided that she would mend them after the children were down for the night.

Before bed, the children took turns reading from a storybook Miria had gotten her hands on; the guild had little use for books in general and even less for children’s stories so she had amassed quite a collection. They had been reading the book chapter-by-chapter each night since Miria returned to prepare for the winter and were continuing the ritual when Vigilance began barking outside, warning the family of trespassers. Assuming it was a delivery of supplies for the addition or winter preparations, she motioned for Lydia to answer the door.

It quickly became evident, however, that there was something else going on when shouted curses made their way from the front room. Miria told the children to sit and read with Llewellyn while she went to investigate.

“Can I help you?” Miria asked of the red-faced man that tried unsuccessfully to shoulder his way around Lydia and into the house. He carried himself like a soldier and she had to suppress the old panic that blossomed in her core. She had more than herself to care for now; Lydia had a capable sword arm, but Miria wasn’t sure Llewellyn had ever had need to wield one.

The hopeful look the man cast her way quickly turned to disapproval, but he ceased his attempts to bully his way in. “I need to speak with the master of the house.” When Miria continued her approach without a response he went on. “The war effort requires a favor.”

“Then ask your favor,” Miria instructed him as she came to a stop next to Lydia.

“I… I…” the man stuttered, doubt and disapproval warring for control over his features. “I have been ordered to speak to the master of the house directly; this is no matter to be handled by a housecarl or…” A final look of disgust settled on Miria before he finished. “mistress.”

Miria plied a saccharine smile to her face. “The matter is urgent enough to require the master of the house, but a message boy has been sent to discuss it?” Her courage was bolstered by the sudden uncertain look that came over the man’s face. She followed his gaze to the children who peeked around the doorway behind her before turning back. “Tell your own master to present himself and the master of the house may deign to speak with him.”

The red in the man’s face deepened and his eyes went wide. He was furious, that much was obvious, and Miria worried for a minute that she would be forced to run him through right there, in the doorway to her home with the children looking on. He controlled his temper, however, and stalked off into the night.

Miria turned to Lydia. “Prepare the horses and wagon. Hopefully they’re not needed, but….” As Lydia left the house Miria walked to Llewellyn. “Prepare the children for travel.”

“Ma,” Runa asked as Llewellyn led her from the room. He stopped to allow her to ask her question. “Who is it?”

“Soldiers, dear,” Miria answered. She kept her voice steady to allay any fear the situation caused the children and placed a hand on each of their heads. “I have tried to keep us out of this war, but soldiers often assume that if you do not take their side, you have aligned with the other. I do not expect trouble, but get ready just in case.”

“Yes, Ma,” they said in unison and followed Llewellyn to their bedroom.

Miria began packing her travel bag, cursing the fact that she had not kept it prepared. She hadn’t thought she’d need it in her home, far from any town or frequently-traveled trail through the wood. She had kept the existence of the property secret even from Brynjolf, concerned that her work for the guild would come back on the children if it ever got out. Her heart raced as she packed and she nearly jumped out of her skin when another knock sounded on the door.


	2. Chapter 2

Miria squared her shoulders and wiped all emotion from her face before opening the door, prepared to fight if the need arose. The red-faced man had returned with a smug smile on his face, standing next to someone Miria first mistook for her long-dead father. Her breath caught in her throat for just a second before she recognized Ulfric Stormcloak, leader of the rebellion and the man she had been sentenced to die with upon her escape from the Imperials. The strain in her muscles eased and a genuine smile came to her face. 

“My Jarl,” she greeted him, bowing her head slightly in respect. “I never expected to see you again.”

“Nor I you,” he answered to the shock of his companion. “I assume you are the trouble Galmar has run into?”

“My intent was not to make trouble,” Miria corrected him. She opened her mouth to continue when he raised his eyebrows in query, but the appearance of the children interrupted her.

“Are we going back to Riften?” Hroar asked as he ran into the room. His follow-up question died on his lips when he saw company at the door.

“Hroar, Runa, I would like you to meet Ulfric Stormcloak and… Galmar, was it?” Miria smiled at the man’s curt nod. “You had business to discuss. Come in, please.” As the men followed Miria into the house, she heard Ulfric give Galmar a quick explanation of how they had met. “I’ll speak with you later,” she told the children as Llewellyn and she led them to their room. “I don’t think we’ll be leaving tonight.” Turning to Llewellyn, she added, “Could you tell Lydia all is well, we should have no need of the wagon.”

He nodded once and headed out the door.

“Is Ralof still with you?” Miria asked as she turned and gestured for the men to sit at the table. “I don’t think I would have gotten out of Helgen alive without your help. I keep intending to thank you, but…”

“You wish to remain out of the war?” Ulfric supplied when she hesitated.

“I have never gotten on very well with soldiers,” Miria admitted with a smile. “Don’t follow orders too well.”

“Luckily we’re not here looking for recruits,” Galmar responded with a hint of animosity still in his voice, “although I have to wonder….” He stopped when he realized that the children were just on the other side of their door, watching and listening intently.

“They’re not yours.” Ulfric stated, leaving the question of their origin unasked.

“Adopted,” Miria explained. “From Riften, after the woman who ran the orphanage passed.”

“Terrible news, that,” Galmar stated, his face softening somewhat. “Why anyone would target a woman who gave so much to the children….”

“Yes,” Miria interrupted, a sharp edge to her voice. “Horrible.” She met his eyes and held them as the children snickered. “Although I hear her replacement is quite competent.”

Llewellyn and Lydia returned at that point. “Lew,” Miria addressed the man, “could you see the children to bed? Lydia, tea.” She looked at the men sitting at the table and added, “unless you would prefer ale.”

“Ale, thank you,” Ulfric answered and Lydia left the room to fetch the refreshments. “My troops are in need of rest,” he told Miria when the housecarl was gone. “We need to resupply and pick up reinforcements before our final push.”

Galmar gave Ulfric a look of shock for his open admission of their plans, but the Jarl ignored the man.

“I will use the distraction of dragons and the depth of winter to my advantage,” he explained. “The Imperials and Thalmor have little tolerance for the cold wilds of Skyrim; they would be ill-prepared for a winter siege.”

Miria thought for a moment before responding. “They have Nords in their ranks, as well. Won’t your advantage be lost on them?”

“Any true Nord will join us to liberate Skyrim.” The look on his face was hard. “The rest can join the invaders in death.”

They discussed the details and merits of the plan over drinks, Galmar shaking his shock and joining in the conversation early on. While Miria knew little of war, she had to admit that they had thoroughly considered their position and their plans. She only wondered whether they had the numbers to complete their coup.

As they spoke it surprised Miria how comfortable she felt with Ulfric. She had assumed on the day they met that it was their shared position as Imperial prisoners that elicited such feeling, but she was beginning to wonder if there was something else to it. He radiated warmth even when his face and voice went cold. His open demeanor and resemblance to her father drew Miria to him, fostering a sense of familiarity and trust.

During a lull in the conversation Galmar spoke up. “We are prepared to compensate you for your aid, if you decide to give it.”

“Oh, of course,” Miria exclaimed, rising to her feet. “The Stormcloaks are welcome; they may camp just below the ridge. Ulfric, you and Galmar may stay upstairs. I’ll have Lydia prepare the room.” She nodded to the housecarl, who had overheard the conversation and ran to complete the task. She then stepped to the kettle to refresh her tea.

“Your hospitality is appreciated,” Ulfric said in thanks. “The soldiers will be glad they do not have to move on in the morning; we’ve been on the road for some time.”

“I’ll fetch your belongings,” Galmar told Ulfric, “and bring your horse to the stable. Is there anything else you need while I’m gone?”

Ulfric shook his head. “Tell Sigrun we’re staying for a while; he’ll arrange everything.”

As Miria refilled her teacup, Ulfric rose and stood next to her. “I was not aware, when we met, that you owned a homestead in Skyrim.”

“I didn’t,” Miria answered him. “A lot has changed in the past year.”

“Yes it has.” He agreed. His eyes took on a contemplative look. “I am often surprised where time takes me.”

“You have no idea,” Miria laughed. “Rags to riches, wickedness to piety, innocence to… not so innocent. As I live my life the world continues on its way and drags me along.” She gestured to Ulfric. “I prepare my home for the change in seasons and an army comes knocking at my door.”

Ulfric harrumphed. “And as I plan a rebellion and prepare for the coming winter, the Gods toy with me. Dragons have returned, a dozen or more have been spotted in the wilds, and rumors of a Dragonborn circulate.”

“Dragons aren’t so bad; kept my head on my shoulders.” Miria sniffed in amusement and turned away to hide her knowing smile. “Besides, as I understand it the old men declare a new Dragonborn every couple of years and then change their minds and begin looking for the next.”

“But this one’s different,” Ulfric countered, and Miria caught the insinuation in his voice. “I hear she defeated a dragon outside of Whiterun; they didn’t lose a single soldier in the fight.”

“She?” Miria asked pointedly, turning her smile to Ulfric and confirming his suspicion of her identity. “And what other rumors have you heard of this Dragonborn?”

Ulfric’s lips reflected her smile when he realized his suspicions were true. “She fights like a rabid animal; strikes without regard for her own safety or that of the hound who is her only companion.”

Vigilance, as if he knew they spoke of him, led Galmar back into the house and to the fire where they stood with the couple. Miria scratched the dog’s ears roughly, laughing slightly at his contented growl.

“She has survived injuries that would have felled a giant,” Ulfric continued, and Galmar rolled his eyes when he realized what they were discussing. “Without fail, she disappears without a trace after each fight is concluded.” He turned to Galmar and elbowed the man in the side. “Is it three dragons now or four that have fallen to her blade?”

“None, more likely,” Galmar answered. “Maybe the one at Whiterun, but she had soldiers helping then.” 

Ulfric looked back to the rack in the front room where Miria kept her armor and weapons and raised his eyebrows, questioning his commander’s certainty. “She rides a nightmare, wields twin swords black as pitch and wears armor dark as the new moon at midnight.”

Galmar followed Ulfric’s gaze with a look of confusion. When his eyes fell on the armor and weapons displayed there the look turned to realization. “Her skin as well,” he added, looking to Miria with a new respect in his eyes. “They say the Gods sent a demon to save us, composed of the stuff of shadows and able to move freely between them.”

The statement did not set well with Miria and she turned from the men. She sat at the table and stared blankly into her tea.

“I… should turn in.” Galmar said, realizing that his words had caused offense. Miria felt foolish for her reaction to his statement, but she had suffered such comments often in the recent past. Of all the attributes the Nords could brag about, tolerance for outsiders was not among them. As Lydia led Galmar up the stairs, Ulfric sat to her right with a freshly filled mug of ale.

“Great commanders don’t necessarily make good diplomats,” he said to her by way of apology.

“Don’t worry about it,” Miria insisted. “My father used to speak of Skyrim as if it were a utopia. I always wondered why he left; I guess now I know.”

“Was he treated unfairly?”

“Oh, no,” Miria answered, a slight laugh in her voice. “At least not that he ever told me. He was Nord; looked a lot like you, in fact. I had one brother that resembled him but the other looked like me, like our mother.”

“Where is he now?”

“Dead,” Miria answered. “By an Imperial sword.” Tears stung her eyes. “He stood tall ‘til the end.”

“Then the Gods have blessed him in death.” Ulfric offered. “As they do all Nord who fight and die bravely.”

“I have never doubted that the Gods blessed him.” Miria said quietly. Several silent minutes passed before she again spoke. “It was quite a long day today, and I have another to look forward to tomorrow. If you don’t mind, I’ll be taking my leave.”

She walked to her room and shut the door, leaving Ulfric at the table alone. Lydia was sleeping in Miria’s bed, having given her own to their guests, and Miria found sleep difficult to come by while sharing it. She woke with the rooster’s call just as the rising sun stained the sky.

As Lydia prepared breakfast Miria continued with her food preservation efforts, packing away the fruit that had dried sufficiently the day before and preparing more to dry in its place. When breakfast was prepared she joined the rest at the dining table.

As always, the children’s incessant chatter and questions cheered her considerably.

“Are you cooking my rabbit yet?” Hroar asked. “Are we still going to have it for dinner?”

“There’s not enough, dummy.” Runa responded. “We have guests to feed now.”

“Runa,” Miria chastised the girl. “We are at the dining table and we have guests, and that is how you choose to speak?”

“Well, sorry,” the girl apologized. “But it’s true, right Ma? There’s not enough to a rabbit to feed us all.”

“No worries,” Ulfric spoke up. “There will be soldiers assigned to hunt for their meal tonight, I’m sure they can contribute another.”

Hroar turned a dark look on him and squinted his eyes. “No!” he shouted. “I will get another rabbit for us!”

“Hroar,” Miria exclaimed.

Ulfric held up a hand to forestall her complaint. “He’s right. As man of the house, he should provide.” He turned to Hroar to address the boy directly. “But you are still quite young. Maybe you can hunt with my soldiers.”

Hroar’s look turned from anger to sheer excitement. He turned to Miria with a pleading look in his eyes. “Can I, Ma?”

Miria’s stomach flipped at the thought of her child in the hands of soldiers, but she reminded herself that these were not the same soldiers that had taken her from her home so many years ago.

“Please?” he begged after a moment of silence. Miria looked to Ulfric, wondering if the offer had been genuine or a ploy to calm his anger.

“He’ll be safe,” Ulfric assured her, “and he’ll return with another rabbit.”

“You may go,” she told the boy, and he whooped in excitement. “But take your bow, and return here for dinner. Remember your whistle if there is trouble; Vigilance will come find you.”

“Ma,” Runa called softly, “what about me? Can I go?”

“No!” Hroar shouted again. “Just me and the soldiers, no girls allowed!”

“A Nord woman is strong,” Ulfric spoke up, again before Miria had a chance to respond. “They fight beside men, share equally in the glory of battle. In fact, there will be shield sisters in your hunting party.”

Hroar seemed unsure about the information, but he wasn’t about to risk his opportunity to hunt with the soldiers. “Oh, all right,” he conceded.

Runa looked to Miria and jumped from the table at her nod. “Oh, thank you Ma.”

“You will listen to the soldiers while you are out with them,” Miria told the children as they finished their breakfast. “Hroar, no running off on your own. Runa, pay attention to the group and don’t get left behind.”

Galmar had summoned the hunting party by the time the children were prepared to leave. One in the party complained about having to babysit, but Galmar fixed a glare on him that shut his complaint down immediately. In no time and with little fanfare, the group headed out into the woods.


	3. Chapter 3

Miria chopped firewood after breakfast, finding it easier to work outside while the children were hunting. Llewellyn and Lydia had taken the wagon into town, both to pick up additional supplies and take care of any of their own business before the onset of winter. They were instructed to return no later than a week hence, but past experience told Miria they would return after only a few days. 

Ulfric and Galmar remained with their troops throughout the day, maintaining their training schedule while accepting deliveries of food and supplies. Miria was pleased to note that the soldiers largely remained below the ridge, away from her home. Even with the best of intentions, hundreds of feet tromping by would spook livestock and damage fruiting trees and bushes, not to mention the damage a troublemaker would cause. 

During a break from swinging the axe she found herself watching the soldiers train. She remembered watching her older brothers with her father and was shocked by the strength of emotions that came over her. It had been so many years ago; King Torygg still lived and Ulfric was nothing more than some Jarl’s young upstart son. So much had happened since then.

They had lived far from any major settlement, on an open plain perfect for crops and livestock. Miria remembered the day her father returned early from hunting with a haunted look on his face; he ignored the children’s questions and rushed into the house to speak with their mother. She never did find out what he had witnessed, but she heard him speaking in harsh whispers late that night; he supported the cause of the rebels from then on, relaying information to contacts whenever the family traveled to town. 

She shook the memories from her head and turned back to her work. Miria had put significant effort into ignoring the war around her, had immersed herself in her efforts for the Thief’s Guild so much she hadn’t even recognized the Stormcloak armor when they came to her door. Maybe this was her sign that she could no longer hide; Skyrim was her chosen home and even if her appearance marked her as an outsider, her children would never be mistaken as anything other than Nord.

It was well past high sun before hunger alerted Miria to the hour. She began preparing the meal for that night, cutting vegetables for the stew and baking extra bread in case the hunt proved fruitless. She needn’t have worried, however, as Hroar ran into the house just as she was filling the pot.

“Ma!” he shouted as he burst in the door. “Ma! Look what I got!”

Runa and Vigilance followed after him. Each child held up both hands; Hroar holding a second rabbit in one and a goose in the other, while Runa held up a second goose and a makeshift basket filled with wild garlic and greens.

“Wow.” Miria answered, relieved to see that the rabbit was cleaned and ready for the pot. “You did well; now we can eat tomorrow, too.” She added the rabbit to the pot and quickly cleaned and added the greens and some of the garlic. “So did you learn any new hunting tricks?”

The stress Miria hadn’t realized she carried left her shoulders as the children chattered on about their trip, but the melancholy from earlier remained. She was glad for their excitement when the meal was ready; their questions occupied their guests more than she imagined she could in her mood. After the meal was concluded, the children went to their beds and fell asleep without complaint.

Ulfric and Galmar invited advisors to the house to discuss recruitment and plans, and apologized for taking over her dining room for their business. Miria dismissed the apology and left the men to their discussion while she plucked the geese for their dinner the next night. The men were still deep in conversation when she took to her bed and she listened to them as she lay awake.

She felt like a child again, straining to hear the adults speak after shuffling off to bed in the evening. Recruitment was not going as planned and the Stormcloaks were well under their expected numbers. Things were not going well for the rebellion despite Ulfric’s insistence that the Imperials would be driven from Skyrim by spring.

The men’s meeting ended, the house went quiet and still Miria could not sleep. After several hours she rose and shrugged into a robe before sneaking outside. The wind hinted at the bitter winter to come and she wrapped her arms around her, trapping as much heat as she could. She rounded the house and walked to the ridge, looking out over the soldier’s camp and the few guards keeping watch around fires scattered through it.

A crunch of leaves warned her that she had company just before a voice asked, “Trouble sleeping?” She glanced back as Ulfric stepped next to her and returned her eyes to the camp, leaving the question unanswered. They stood in companionable silence for several minutes before Ulfric again spoke. “I have hundreds of men and women behind me; good, proud soldiers; but I fear it will not be enough.”

“Trouble recruiting?” Miria asked him. They shared a quick look before returning their eyes to the camp.

“Yes,” he answered. “I don’t know if the Nords have lost their spirit or if it is buried beneath years of Imperial control, waiting to be unearthed.”

“It will be a hard winter, according to all signs.” Miria pointed out. “It is difficult to get people to leave their families in the best of times; they will not want to abandon them to die cold, hungry and alone.”

“Even to free their homeland from invaders?” He turned a look of distaste on Miria. “Are they truly Nord if they hide, warm and protected, while others fight and die for them?”

Miria met his eyes; tried to divine his ultimate goal through them. She remembered that he had lost his family before the war started and tried another tract. “You and I suffer from the… benefit,” the word tasted sour in her mouth, but in the face of war it was appropriate, “of losing our families before this war began. Imagine you had family still back home, that your mother or brother needed you to care for them. Would you then be so quick to leave them behind?”

The cold anger remained in his eyes, but he seemed to be considering her words. He looked over the camp before returning his attention to Miria. “And what of you? Will you remain huddled within your warm home with your family?”

Miria couldn’t help the abrupt laugh that escaped her. “I sit still about as well as I get on with soldiers.” His eyebrows rose in askance and she turned to the camp and continued. “The benefit of employing a housecarl and bard are that I may come and go freely without worry for the children. I return home often, but am preparing the household for winter in case I am unable to return until spring.”

“What do you do while you are away from home?”

Miria smiled, thinking of what she had accomplished with the Guild and the dragons she had slain, not to mention the other tasks she had taken on. “Earn enough to pay for a homestead, bard and housecarl?”

They shared a quiet chuckle. “And when do you plan on heading back out?”

Miria shrugged her shoulders noncommittally. “I imagine I’ll be done in a week or so. I plan to take the children for one last trip, visit their friends at the orphanage in Riften, before returning them here and then I can set out.”

“What then?”

She turned and met his eyes, asking the same of herself as she considered his question. She had assumed she would go back to the guild and continue her work with them, but with Mercer out of the picture there was little they needed of her. She’d accept whatever jobs she was offered, but she’d be left with a lot of time on her hands.

“I don’t know,” she finally answered. “It’s been such a frantic race just to stay on my feet, now that they’re firmly beneath me.”

After several more seconds of silence Ulfric sighed loudly. “I thank you for the advice,” he told Miria. “You’ve given me a lot to consider, but I must return to bed.”

Miria bid him goodnight and watched as he climbed the stair that led to the exterior door of his room. She pictured a happy family, much like the one she had as a child, with her cast as mother and Ulfric as father, reading storybooks with the children in front of the fire. With a yawn she followed, circling the house to the front door to avoid disturbing her guests.

She woke again to the crow of the rooster and spent another day preserving food and cutting firewood. The children spent their morning wandering the woods and returned with a basket of late-season berries. “For our guests,” Runa had insisted. “You can make pie for desert.” In the afternoon they stacked the firewood she had split alongside the stable.

Galmar returned to the house before Ulfric that evening and confronted Miria as Runa helped her prepare their meal.

“What did you say to him?” Galmar asked without introduction.

Miria looked back at him. “Runa, honey,” she said to the girl, “go help your brother.” After the girl had left the room she returned to her work. “You’ll have to give me more than that.”

“Ulfric.” The man stood for a second before taking a seat at the table. “He’s releasing the soldiers, ‘to prepare their families for the winter,’ he says, with the promise of a bonus for any who return within the month for the winter assault.”

Miria smiled to herself and didn’t respond. She had heard rumors of Ulfric’s motives; that he fought for nothing but his own gain, that he was so caught up in his cause he ignored or disregarded the advice of others; and this news offered her a measure of relief. Maybe the cause wasn’t doomed to failure.

“Are you disputing the logic, or the fact that he took the advice from someone other than you?”

“We’ve already lost half our men!” Galmar countered. He ran a hand through his hair as he regained control over himself. “They couldn’t wait to get out of here once he made the announcement; there’s no way we can win a war now.”

Miria turned to face him and crossed her arms. “First of all,” she told him, “you weren’t winning any war with that rag-tag bunch you had down there. Second, the men aren’t lost if they return within a month. Do you think they joined the rebellion to free Skyrim, or to have fun playing soldier with the hope that Ulfric would let them go before winter?”

He fixed a hateful glare on her but the tension in his body eased noticeably.

“Those who don’t return you wouldn’t want fighting for you anyway,” she explained as he continued to stare. “The chance to prepare for winter and the promise of a bonus will ease the fears of those with families to care for, that their absence will not cause undue harm to their loved ones. You will prove to all of Skyrim that your efforts are for all, rather than a title and power for Ulfric and his commanders.”

She didn’t think her argument had convinced him, but a seed of doubt was all she had hoped for. “Give it the month.” She finally told him. “If you lose men, then you lose the war you were going to lose anyway. If you gain men, you just might win.”

Over his shoulder, the front door opened and Ulfric entered. “There are three wagons and two score men heading out now.” Miria turned away as he continued. “Some of the men opted for firewood and grain as their bonus, to leave with their families when they return here.”

Galmar’s face remained hard and Ulfric nodded a greeting to Miria when she turned to them. “He doesn’t like the idea.” His voice was low, almost conspiratorial, as he spoke to her. “But I have faith; faith that all true Nords will fight for Skyrim and faith that the Gods will guide our way.”

They shared their meal that night, Runa bragging about the work she’d put into the pies, and for a moment as the children read their storybook Miria imagined she had gained that happy family she so longed for. The peace was short lived, however, as a knock at the door summoned Ulfric and Galmar back to their army to handle some issue that had come up. Miria had already retired for the night when she heard their steps climbing the stair to their room.

The week continued in much the same fashion, Miria and the children preparing their home for the winter while the soldiers, at least those who did not take advantage of their unexpected leave, prepared the army for a winter assault. Llewellyn and Lydia returned on the fifth day after they left, wagon loaded with feed for the animals and staples for the house, and Miria planned the trip with the children for two days after.

Ulfric decided to join her, along with loaded wagons and a group of his own soldiers. He had need to return to Windhelm and Riften was not too far out of the way. Besides, many soldiers lived along the road who would benefit from a delivery of their winter bonus and the move would push the rumor mill and hopefully encourage more to join. Ralof was back in Riverwood, it seemed, and he wished to leave his bonus with his sister and her family. 

They left Lakeside leading a small train of wagons. Miria, the children and Vigilance rode in one, Llewellyn and Lydia having stayed behind, while Ulfric and one other soldier rode in a second. A third followed, under the control of two other soldiers, and two soldiers on horseback took up the rear. Galmar was to stay behind and organize the soldiers there, as well as any that arrived in the next few weeks, before joining Ulfric in Windhelm.

They made rounds of the smaller villages on their way, Miria riding in first to assure there were no Imperial soldiers before sending word behind her, and made camp outside the larger cities where Miria passed word on to any prospective soldiers. As the military carts unloaded flour, feed and firewood they picked up men and women. Their numbers had grown more than a score by the time they picked up Ralof in Riverwood and topped 50 when they arrived in Riften, most following the wagon train on foot.


	4. Chapter 4

The soldiers set up camp several miles from Riften when they arrived. Miria and the children continued on, having reached their destination. They first visited the orphanage, where Hroar and Runa squealed in delight when they saw their old friends. The new mistress looked distressed, worried that perhaps the children were being returned, but Miria explained that it was just a visit.

Miria treated the entire orphanage, including the mistress, to a day on the town. They shared a meal and visited the tailor where Miria purchased them each a single new outfit suitable for the fast-approaching winter. They stopped at the temple of Mara and allowed the children to play in the large yard, chasing each other around pillars and wrestling in the grass.

After speaking with people in the market and at the temple, Miria realized just how many Nords would be willing to fight the Imperials if they only believed they had a chance to win. Riften had always struck her as an insular place, its citizens uninterested in the goings-on in the rest of Skyrim, but she began thinking the citizens were simply disenfranchised. She sowed a bit of her own animosity among them and shared her rumor of the rebellion’s current recruitment efforts.

Miria arranged for Hroar, Runa and Vigilance to stay at the orphanage while they were in town and dropped off the clothing the children had grown out of, a crate of blankets and food to last several weeks. She then bid them good-bye before making her way through the sewers to the Ragged Flagon.

“She returns to us,” Vekel said when she entered, attracting the attention of the others in the room. “After Mercer, I was a bit worried you were gone for good.”

“How could I stay away?” Miria mused, walking to the bar and taking the drink that had been set there for her. “There’s still a long way to go.” She swiveled in her stool to face the rest of the room. “Vex, got any jobs?”

“I’ve jobs coming out my arse,” the woman answered. “But wait for Delvin, I think he’s got something special for you.”

Miria drained her mug and set it on the bar. “Any news I should know about?” she asked. She jumped from her stool and began walking to the cistern. “New recruits or rivalries? Anyone need to be rescued from a dungeon?” Snickers and grunts followed her out, so she assumed the answer to be no. In the cistern she walked to the desk where Mercer Frey used to sit; the desk where Brynjolf now bent over paperwork.

“And how is my operations manager doing?”

Brynjolf’s eyes conveyed frustration and exhaustion when he looked up to her but they quickly softened. “As grateful as I am that the hemorrhaging of the Guild’s finances has stopped,” he began as he stood from the desk and walked around it, “I’m not entirely sure I am cut out for paperwork.” He wrapped his arms around Miria in greeting.

Miria leaned into his embrace, absorbing what warmth and security she could from him. She remembered the nights they had spent together here in the guild and at the inn, not to mention those times their passion got the best of them on a job; in a mark’s home or business, the cemetery, that time they got stuck in a closet at the guard post. Her heartbeat quickened and her loins ached and she realized if she didn’t end it now, the embrace would turn into much more. She placed a hand on his chest and forced some distance between them.

Brynjolf gave her a cock-eyed grin before stepping back. “Man’s gotta’ try, right?”

Miria returned his grin. “So, how is the guild recovering?”

Frustration returned to Brynjolf’s eyes before he answered. “It’s a mess.” He returned to his seat and sifted through several papers. “I can’t make heads or tails of it. Not only did Mercer take everything of value, it appears we owe favors or funds to just about every operation in Skyrim.”

Miria pulled a chair up to the desk and sat opposite him, taking several papers and looking over them. “Mercer was able to keep everything afloat while he skimmed the proceeds; without the skimming I’m sure you can fix everything.”

Brynjolf gave her a look of uncertainty before returning to his work. He shared several notes of particular concern and they discussed the best ways to settle them.

“Have you heard anything about Imperial troop movements through the area?” Miria asked him.

“Troop movements?” Brynjolf asked her. “What do we need with those?” He shuffled through the papers and pulled one out.

“I heard a rumor,” Miria answered. “Something about the coming winter; thought we could use it to our advantage.”

“There’s been no change to those stationed in Riften, and they seem to be settling in everywhere else.” He set the paper he held on the desk and Miria was thrilled to see the crudely drawn map with troop numbers and recent movements marked on it. “I’ve seen no sign of anything.”

“Maybe we could perpetuate the rumors,” Miria suggested. “Use the fear to our advantage.”

Brynjolf grunted non-committedly. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt,” he told her, “but I’ve got enough to do. Give that job to someone else.”

Miria stifled a laugh as she studied the map.

Brynjolf sighed heavily and returned to his feet. “I was just about to break for a meal; join me?”

Miria smiled and nodded. “Sure,” she told him. “Get a plate for me, I’ll join you in a minute.” After he crossed into the Flagon, she sketched a quick copy of the map and secreted it away before joining the rest of the guild. They ate and drank as they discussed business and shared news from the month she’d been gone. Delvin’s job was in Whiterun and she was relieved it wouldn’t take her out of her way.

The meal went longer than Miria had expected and she found herself walking through the dark to the soldier’s camp. Her arrival triggered a flurry of activity and Ralof ran out to greet her. “Where have you been?” he asked, pulling her into a tent in the center of camp. “We thought you were in trouble; that the Imperials had figured out what we’re doing.”

She stumbled after him, her feet falling heavily after an afternoon of drinking. “I had to deal with the kids and the dog and the wagon,” she explained. “They’re staying at the orphanage. Then I had to deal with the….” She stopped before divulging her connection to the guild. “Business and talk to people and….” She turned when she heard the canvas of the tent rustle and Ulfric stepped in. 

A slow smile came to her face as she watched the man approach, admiring the hard lines of muscle visible under his shirt and the sway of his hips as he walked. Her thoughts turned to Brynjolf for only a second as she wondered how the future high king would measure up to the rogue in bed.

“You’re drunk,” he stated simply, his look of displeasure deepening.

“I am,” Miria readily admitted. “The best way to get people to talk is to get them to drink, and the best way to get people to drink is to drink with them.”

He nodded at her explanation as one does a drunk justifying their latest scheme to get a drink. Miria smiled more widely as she thought of the information she had to give him.

“The city is clear, well, beyond the normal guard.” She took a step toward him as she fished for the copy of the map she’d made, stepping a little closer than decency would generally allow. When she looked up she had to crane her neck to look into his eyes. Her voice dropped slightly. “There are more than a few loyal Nords in the city; I’m sure given the right incentives you could entice them into the fold.”

Innate stubbornness kept Ulfric from yielding ground to Miria, although she could see in his eyes that he fought to keep his composure. She held the map up in two fingers, leaning in even more closely and dropping her voice to a husky whisper. “I got something for you.”

His face remained hard when he took the paper and opened it, the muscles of his jaw twitched and he clenched his teeth, but his entire demeanor changed when he realized what she had given him. He stepped back and to the side in one fluid motion, holding the page so Ralof could see it.

“How… Who did you get this from?” Ulfric asked. When she didn’t answer he looked up and asked again.

Miria screwed her eyebrows up. “I have contacts,” she answered cryptically. “I trust them.”

He turned back to the page, ignoring her evasion, and spoke with Ralof. They pointed to several areas of the map, harsh whispers revealing the bounty of information the relatively simple map conveyed.

Miria noted the smile that slowly came to Ulfric’s face. “I did good?” she asked, her voice mimicking the innocent plea of a child. When he graced her with a winning smile in answer, she reached out and took each of the men by hand. “Time to celebrate.”

They followed as she led them from the tent but continued their conversation. Once outside, they both released her hands, Ralof taking the map and studying it more closely while Ulfric stopped several soldiers and relayed orders. 

Miria watched the activity around her but contributed little. One soldier set up a makeshift table and benches and another brought mugs of ale to set on it. Miria took one of the mugs, already too intoxicated to contribute anything to battle plans, but stepped away from the table to allow those who could plan to sit. It was several hours before the commotion slowed and Ralof and Ulfric again sat on their own, and Miria returned her attention to them. “Soo…” she began when neither noticed her, “celebrate?”

They both smiled her way before returning to the map. “What did you have planned?” Ulfric asked. “I can’t exactly walk into Riften and there’s not much out here for a celebration.”

Miria stepped closer to the men and smiled down at Ulfric, her mind returning to her earlier thoughts about the man. “Oh, there’s plenty to do if you look hard enough.”

Ulfric seemed to miss the suggestive tone of her voice, but Ralof snorted a laugh and looked up. “Really?” he asked. He looked from Miria’s mischievous smile to Ulfric, still distracted by the map. “I’ll just…” he began as he stood. He stumbled slightly, the ale he’d consumed in the last couple of hours making itself known. He realized neither was listening to him and mumbled, “Yeah,” before walking away.

Ulfric moved his head slightly, barely taking note of Ralof’s departure. Miria moved closer, watching his eyes as they studied every detail of the map.

“They’re leaving their flank open here,” he said, more to himself than anyone else. He lifted his mug and took a long pull as he pointed to a spot on the map Miria believed was near Markarth, but she honestly wasn’t sure. “If we could swing down through Falkreath….” He looked up and seemed surprised to see Miria rather than one of his troops, his eyes going out of focus for a moment as they swept the area around them.

“It’s late,” Miria said as she took the paper from his hand. “All of your men have turned in; it’s time you did the same.” His eyes followed the map and Miria took a hand and pulled him to his feet in front of her. He looked away, uncomfortable with her proximity, but she put a hand on his face and guided his eyes back to hers. “Time for bed, My Jarl.”

His eyes focused as they met hers and blossomed with her hunger reflected in them. Miria rose to her toes to match his height and moved closer, but the effort proved useless as Ulfric’s open mouth met her in the middle. He released the tension in his body with a loud grunt and his hands moved to her hips.

Miria’s head swam. She nearly dropped the map before coming to her senses long enough to secure it on the table and then both hands were gripping Ulfric’s hair, pulling him closer as she reveled in his taste.


	5. Chapter 5

Ulfric spun about and lifted her the few inches she needed to sit on the table. With her legs relieved of the effort to remain standing, Miria wrapped them around his waist, inviting him to explore the rest of her body as his tongue did her mouth. She leaned back as his kisses found her neck, her throat and her chest. She moaned when he kneaded a breast through her clothing and yelped when he bit her shoulder.

His eyes shot up, scanning the area around them to assure her sudden noise wasn’t heard. When they returned to her much of the heat had gone from them. “What am I…” he began, taking a step back and shaking his head. “I can’t….”

“Can’t?” Miria repeated, returning her feet to the ground and taking hold of a hand to prevent him from retreating too far. “Can’t what? Go to bed? Celebrate a victory?”

“I….” He looked into her eyes before shaking his head again. “I have to think of Skyrim, of my men. If I’m going to be High King, I can’t… I can’t do this.”

Miria felt her own passion turning to annoyance and it came out in her voice. “What,” she asked him, “no sex allowed? Do you expect them to believe you’re a virgin?”

Ulfric shook his head automatically. “That’s not it,” he said. His mouth opened and closed as if he wished to say more, but nothing further came forth. Finally he dropped his eyes.

Miria followed his gaze to where she clasped his hand and her body went cold. His fingers seemed to glow in the moonlight, framed as they were by her chocolate skin, and she was embarrassed that it had taken her so long to figure it out; couldn’t believe she had made a move even in her drunken state.

“Of course,” she said, her voice turning business-like. She dropped his hand and clutched her own to her chest. “I’m sorry, I should have known.”

Ulfric looked up as she slipped from between him and the table but Miria refused to meet his gaze; to let him see the tears that had begun to fall. She turned away from him, toward the city that had been her home for over a year, and began walking. “Skyrim for the Nords,” she shouted, fighting to keep her voice steady.

She imagined him following her; rushing up to apologize for his words, take her into his arms and carry her to his tent; but she heard nothing over the noises of the night. As she walked from the camp she broke into a run and flew over land that had become as familiar to her as any other.

She wondered if she had erred in leaving Riften in the first place. She had hoped for something more meaningful, to make a difference in the world that would last beyond her own life. Buying a home and adopting children didn’t change who she was; maybe her life wasn’t meant to be anything more. Maybe she should have remained with the Thieves’ Guild, or even with her Imperial captors. Maybe she should have died as a child with the rest of her family.

Miria approached her house from the rear, one of the few properties in Riften with openings both into and out of town. The place had stood abandoned since she’d taken up residence at Lakeside, so it was easy for her to enter the city without anyone the wiser. She walked through the house, ignoring her belongings that remained scattered throughout, and continued into the dark city.

She felt eyes tracking her movements, but the sensation did little to unnerve her. This city had accepted her into its fold long ago; she had as much claim over it as Maven Black-Briar or even the Jarl herself. No one would dare strike at her here. She smiled when she heard a familiar hoot on the wind; a recruit offering a greeting to his Guildmaster.

She entered the sewers through the Ratway to avoid anyone who would stop to speak with her. The hour was late enough that even most of the guild slept peacefully, but she smiled when she heard Brynjolf’s irritated voice rise over the other sounds of the sewer. She stood at the entrance to the cistern and nearly laughed aloud when his curse was answered with a chorus of “Shhh!” There was a bang, the sound of wood scraping the stone floor, then footsteps that got louder as they approached. Miria stood back from the door and hid in the darkness.

After Brynjolf walked through the door and shut it tightly, Miria managed to get a hand over his mouth before he called out in surprise and pinned his body between the wall and her own. His struggles quickly subsided as he realized who his attacker was.

Miria removed her hand from his mouth when he stopped struggling and lifted the front of his shirt. She couldn’t see his chest in the blackness, but she remembered the hard muscles of his chest and ran her hands over them, eliciting a hiss from him when she raked fingernails down his body.

“Didn’t expect to see you again tonight,” he said in a whisper, his breath coming in ragged gasps. 

Miria ignored the words and pulled his shirt over his head. Throwing the garment aside, her mouth found his chest and ran over it, tracing his familiar lines and tasting his familiar flavor. She fumbled with his belt and dropped to her knees.

A low moan escaped Brynjolf’s mouth before he spoke again. His hands caught hers and held them. “Got the impression you had your eyes on someone else tonight,” he said when she finally stilled. “I’m not looking for a rival to spar with.”

“No worries, then,” she answered, moving his hands to either side and pressing them against the cold stone wall. She returned her hands to his trousers, pulled them down and swallowed his hardening cock in one move, her hands still clinging to the fabric at his sides. Brynjolf’s breath caught in his throat and one hand grabbed the hair on her head.

She worked him furiously until he strained at the edge of release, then backed off. His frustrated grunt brought a smile to her face and she resisted his efforts to move her back into place. She pursed her lips and blew a soft stream of air over his wet erection, causing it to jump, and he moaned low in his throat.

“I’m thinking,” Miria began before again taking him full into her mouth. Brynjolf’s knees went weak and he would have fallen if not for the wall behind him. She suckled him and pulled her mouth from his shaft slowly, ending with another cool breath of air. “We should find someplace else,” she continued and repeated the move. He thrust his hips forward and pulled on her hair, desperate to reach his climax, but she maintained control and pulled away as before. “To finish this.”

Brynjolf’s muscles tightened as he prepared for another teasing pass. When it did not come he replayed her words in his head, just then catching their meaning. He reached down blindly, unable to make out anything in the darkness, and pulled his trousers up. “This way,” he directed her, opening the door and leading her into the cistern.

The guild slept on beds spread throughout the cistern and torches burned on the walls, offering little in the way of privacy. Miria followed him regardless, interested only in sating the fire, fed by both passion and anger, that raged within her. 

Brynjolf led her to the door behind Mercer’s desk – no, she reminded herself, behind his own desk – and they snuck inside the guild’s empty treasure room. Light from the open door revealed a pile of tattered blankets and Miria made her way to them before Brynjolf closed the rest of the guild away and joined her.

She reached for him in the pitch black, and when her fingertips felt him she pulled him close. They continued where they left off, their fire losing none of its fervor in the short break. Brynjolf pushed her against the wall and her hands returned to his waist, shedding his hastily donned trousers.

Their chorus of wanton groans and grunts elevated as they continued to tease each other, to kiss and stroke and probe and pull away at the last second. They kicked off their boots, discarded their clothing and explored each other’s bodies like it was their first time. When Brynjolf finally pinned Miria and forced himself inside of her, she cried out and threw her head back, barking it painfully against the wall.

They moved to the pile of blankets and screwed like animals, wild and frantic, before they climaxed together. Comfortable and satisfied, Miria shrugged into Brynjolf’s embrace. Sleep reached for her and she ached to lose herself in it, but her mind refused to allow her that comfort.

Brynjolf squeezed her tightly. “Not that I don’t enjoy our time together,” he began, hesitating for a second before he continued, “but what’s this about?”

Miria lay still for several seconds before answering, long enough for Brynjolf to question whether she’d fallen asleep. When she finally spoke, she avoided answering the question directly. “You’re a good friend, Brynjolf. My best. Thank you.”

“You’re more than welcome, lass, but if that’s true then you really gotta’ get out and meet new people.”

Miria sniffed at the suggestion. “More people to lie to me, disappoint me and use me for their own purposes?” She adjusted her position to face Brynjolf, even though the dark prevented her from seeing him. “No thank you, I’ve enough of those in my life.”

“And yet here you are,” he pointed out, “with the thief who used you to save his guild.”

“You didn’t,” Miria began, but the truth of his words could not be denied. “At least you didn’t lie to me; told me the guild was in a bad way and you hoped new blood would help.” Silence stretched for several minutes as they considered her words.

“Who would have imagined then,” Brynjolf mused, “that you’d depose our Guildmaster and we’d all be happy as clams about it?”

“Who would have thought that a whelp of a child escaping from the Imperial Headsman would turn out to be the Dragonborn?” Miria laughed as she spoke. “No wonder the Gods don’t wipe us out; it’s so much more fun to screw with our lives.”

Brynjolf joined in with her laughter. “How is that Dragonborn thing coming? Have you saved all of Tamriel yet?”

“I had been trying to avoid it,” Miria answered. “After all, they didn’t seem to be bothering anybody, other than that first one at Whiterun.” She thought of her last few encounters, attacks as she walked the wilds. “I think they’re getting more active, though. Don’t think I can ignore it for much longer.”

“Brynjolf,” a muffled voice penetrated the thick door. Seconds later the word was repeated from further away.

“Duty calls,” the man sighed. “Guess I better get out there.”

“Does the great Brynjolf have no need for sleep?” Miria laughed at him as he fumbled for his clothing in the dark.

“I’ll get a few hours later,” he told her, “after everyone’s out on jobs. What about you, got much you need to do today?”

Miria stretched out on the pile of blankets. “I’m comfortable where I am,” she said. As she listened to Brynjolf continue to fumble around she added, “Although I may have need of a torch when I wake. Quiet, dark and private; I’m thinking this would make a great room for the Guildmaster. Or the operations manager, since he spends so much more time here.”

“Or?” Brynjolf asked through a snicker. “I was hoping for something more inclusive.”

There was a scuffle beyond the door, like rats running through the walls, as others in the guild woke to the new day and made their way to the Flagon. There was a low rumble as people stopped and spoke nearby.

“You seem awfully optimistic this will happen again.”

“Optimistic is my middle name,” Brynjolf told her, his voice coming from near the door. “Besides, the room’s big enough, I’m sure two beds will fit. I might actually get some sleep.”

The voices on the other side of the door became louder and angry. Miria nearly laughed when she heard Dirge yell, “Well where the hell is he?”

The room was flooded in pale light as Brynjolf exited, shouting as he went. “I’m right here!” It returned to blackness when the door closed. “What in the hells is so important that I had to be woken yet again?”

The voices faded as they moved away and Miria made herself comfortable in the dark, falling asleep quickly with no distractions to keep her awake.


End file.
